When I first met my (future) wife around 1977, I drove a 1976 Monte Carlo, much like the one below only different! Mine was white with the black vinyl top. And maybe not quite as shiny. It also had magnesium wheels.
After we were married for a while, we sold the Monte Carlo and our major source of transportation was a 1946 Chevy pickup, much like the one below, only different!
Mine 1946 Chevy was not shiny but was rust and white colored. The white color had been painted over the original dark green color as was evident by the paint still on the engine’s firewall. The rust was not actually a paint color but was the color of oxidized metal or car cancer.
Anyhow, a friend of mine had installed a 1969 Chevy Impala, automatic engine in place of the old engine which had ‘died’. It died when a piston went through the wall of the engine which has the same effect as a bullet through the heart! The friend did a ‘transplant’ for me with much metallic surgery.
After work one afternoon, I drove my potential wife to the place of my chosing where I was going to have a serious talk with her. Living in western Nebraska, my choice location just happened to be an old abandoned sugar beet pulp pit. This pit was an eight sided ‘pit’ which looked much like a football stadium in shape. Though it was large, it was nowhere near as large as a true stadium. Its sloping cement walls looked as if they could have once held bleachers for fans to sit in. Over the years, one of the walls of the pit had crumbled which made it easier for us to climb up and over. Once we were inside, we would be completely out of sight of everyone which meant that we would have the whole place to ourselves. Though we were alone, it was clear that in previous years, we had not been the only ones to have visited the place. Others ‘visitors’ had used the pit as a dump site but I, in my romantic quest, played all of it into my plan.
Ideally, I would have taken my sweetheart into the mountains or at least used them as a backdrop, with a stream gently cascading at our feet. But, having no mountains closer than 100 miles away and the Platte River about three miles away, I adapted things in my own way. We walked, arm in arm over to an old, rusting wash machine which was resting on its side. I asked my Love to have a seat because I had something to ‘talk’ about. She cautiously obliged and I began my un-rehearsed speel.
“Pretend this washing machine is a huge rock. See the dry, dirt-clogged gutter where juice from the beet pulp used to drain into? Pretend it is actually a beautiful stream flowing down from the mountains all around us”.
Not quite seeing the same picture I was giving, “What mountains”? she asked.
I pointed to the edges of the pit which were maybe twenty feet high and said, “Those mountains”.
Eventually, she humored me although I’m sure she still didn’t see the same romantic setting I was laying out for her.
I continued. “Those weeds over there are rose bushes, for pretends and the sounds of the (nearby, still functioning) sugar factory are little birdies singing at the top of their little birdie lungs. Okay?”
Before she had a chance to question my wild imaginations any further, I decided I better get down to the business I had brought her to the pit for in the first place. I got down on one knee in the dirt, took her hand and asked her if she would marry me. How she could she resist my plea amongst such a romantic atmosphere was beyond me! At that point, it didn’t matter whether she saw the same scene I was seeing. The important thing was that she did not resist or refuse but accepted my offer and we sealed it with one of many thousands of kisses before and since then. I don’t mean one of thousands of pulp pit kisses! From there on out, we still haven’t lost the feeling of true love, going on 33 years now. I have come to the CONCLUSION that perhaps there are more romantic places than where I took my gal. If some guy ever wants to take one of my daughters down to the pit, I better be going along. You know, as part of the pretty scenery!